The Book Club
by MissMallora
Summary: In which Sandor meets Sansa in university, and totally ruins his chances. Or does he?
1. Chapter 1

Getting Sansa to open up to him again after their disastrous first encounter is nothing short of exhausting, and downright infuriating at times. And not because she's being a shallow little bitch—no, he could handle it if she were. He'd have been right in his first assumptions if she were—a bitch, that is. Only she's not. She's nowhere near anything like that.

He should have just given up after the first three meager attempts. Wanted to give up, that's for damn sure. But he couldn't. Just…couldn't. Because every time he tried, all he could see was her happy blue eyes smiling endearingly up at him, her head tilted sweetly as she listened to every fucking word he said, and rambled on in kind. _Fuck, _he thought she was being polite, is all. He thought she was secretly repulsed, horrified, looking for a way out. Well, he'd been really fucking wrong, and there was no other way of saying it.

She really _was _just that sweet.

And he totally blew it.

_Why don't you go chirp to one of your pretty boys, and leave me the fuck alone._

Ohhhh, he wished he could just go back and kick himself in the balls before he could speak. Before he fucked it all up. It's only…she was sitting there smiling at him, chattering away eagerly on class and how exciting university life was, and how much she enjoyed being on her own without her many siblings to hold her down (he wondered what she'd be like had she grown up with _his _sibling) and she was so goddamn _nice. _And the whole time, he sat there hating himself for wanting her more and more, hating her for being able to lie so well.

His words, completely uncalled for and served with a bitter sneer of contempt, were more than enough to smack the cheery smile from her face, enough to make her eyes water in hurt and dejection, enough to send her scuttling away to another seat with, lo and behold, a pretty boy sitting next to her. The pretty boy asked her something—likely if she was ok—and the redheaded little bird just smiled and nodded, looking straight ahead at the chalkboard.

Of all the shitty things he'd done in his miserable life, that had to be one of the worst.

Sandor resolved not to dwell on it—what's done is done, and all that shit—but he just couldn't forget it. Couldn't forget the way she'd giggled at the surlier things he said, the sarcastic comments about riding the filthy, overcrowded subway to school, and the expense of tuition, and the heavy reading loads. Couldn't forget _her. _So he watched her the next day in class, and pretended that he didn't.

_Oh but he did. _

He watched her smile shyly at other students, far more welcoming than he'd been, and he watched her hunched shoulders slowly unfurl and straighten as she relaxed, watched her discomfort vanish as she felt more at ease with the others. He watched her come to life for them all—for everyone but him, of course, and he had no one to blame but himself.

No matter who said hello to her, she said hi back. No matter who was waiting outside the class when she got there, she smiled and waved (unless it was him, in which case she nervously hung around outside the building until another student arrived). No matter who she was partnered with (the plump, awkward boy with a lisp or the eccentric, bright-eyed girl with dragons tattooed along her neck), she offered warm and genuine encouragement.

Until she was partnered with him.

When they were assigned together, he studied her reaction carefully. Her eyes widened a great deal, and the baby blues turned far more watery than they already were. She looked at her hands, clasped on the desk, and stared long and hard at them, as though trying to tell herself something. He could almost hear her internal pep-talk—_don't panic. It's just a boy. An extremely rude boy who doesn't like you for any apparent reason, other than that you were friendly to him—_and his hands clenched in fists on his lap.

Still, she made her way over to him on legs like Jell-O, wobbly and out of breath. By the time she had sat down, she was flushed and averted her eyes almost constantly.

Tucking a red curl behind her ear, revealing the slender neck of hers, she bent over her notes and pretended to study the assignment, as though she hadn't done so already.

"So…" she coughed and cleared her throat. "I did my paper on the idea in the Heart of Darkness—the one Marlow discusses early on and compares to colonialism…" She passed him the paper with shaky hands, sliding it timidly to the corner of his desk. She was sitting across from him, and from his angle he could see her open-toed sandals pressed into the ground, curling her painted toes and pushing them down hard, rolling them constantly, incessantly.

_Scared. She's scared of you, you stupid fuck._

Seeing her like that, so openly afraid and uneasy, had brought the uncomfortable revelation to a head: she hadn't been pretending when she was being nice to him. If this was her being uncomfortable, there was no way she could have lied so well before.

_Fucking stupid fuck—she was trying to be kind. Not a liar. Just a little girl too sweet for her own good. _

Sandor, entirely out of his element and extremely aware of the glares he was getting from no less than three guys across the room, handed over his paper to Sansa without a word before returning his attention to the essay she had just handed him.

_The Idea Of Colonialism, by Sansa Stark_

Fuck, it was even fancy paper, with little calligraphic swirls in the corners of each page.

The essay was pretty good, all things aside. Sandor knew his literature pretty well, especially the classics, and Heart of Darkness was his specialty. _Of course it is—you live in a heart of darkness, don't you? _

As he read, he ticked off spelling mistakes, repetitive words, confusing statements, and a sloppy concluding paragraph. Despite that, her thoughts were clear and the flow was nice. Her essay wasn't a standard five-paragraph essay either, which would go over nicely with the TAs, who were known to rip into freshies for carrying on the high school essay format.

At the end, on the last page below her final paragraph, he made a quick list of things she needed to fix.

_Look for new wording for some of your ideas. Avoid using the word "proves" in an English essay—_that was just fucking common sense—_and take another look at your concluding paragraph. _

He paused, pen hovering over the page, and his eyes dared to peak out under his lashes to get a glimpse of her, head bent and brow furrowed in concentration over his essay. He knew it was a good essay. He had written on Joseph Conrad before, and done very well.

Finally he added, embarrassed and irritated with his sentiment,

_It's a good essay. Well done._

Of course, he totally ruined _that _weak attempt to make nice when the teacher said time was up, and to return the essay they had marked to the owner. Sandor dropped Sansa's essay back on her desk and, without a word, took hers out from under her hands, barely waiting long enough for her to lift the pen from paper.

Affronted, she met his gaze for a second then let it fall, her dark brow pulled together in something like frustration or hurt. He didn't stick around to psychoanalyze it, he just left.

Sandor made it outside of the building before realizing, being a complete and utter knob, he had forgotten his own backpack. Cursing, he trudged back inside, scowling fiercely at the students who threw him looks of fear and bewilderment, and marched into the empty class.

Well, he thought it would be empty.

Sansa was, naturally, sitting right where he'd left her.

The essay he'd marked up was on her lap, and she was staring down at it with an intense concentration, as though her own words confused her greatly. He snuck in quietly so she didn't hear him, and she tilted her head pensively at the page she was on.

With a start, he noticed it was the last page she was puzzling over. _The one with that fucking comment. _

Blinking, she seemed to be re-reading the comment over and over, utterly shocked. She mumbled something to herself, something he couldn't hear, and eventually flipped to the first page. It was then he started moving again, and went for the desk with his backpack.

Sansa jumped in his peripheral at the sound of his footsteps, but he kept his head turned away from her, and neither said a word as he reached for his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and left as quiet as he had come.

That night was Friday, and so he didn't see her again until Tuesday morning. The essays were due that day, and everyone seemed to flip between being extremely jittery, or excited, or just plain tired. The little bird was one of them, the tired students who looked like they hadn't slept for more than twenty four hours. Her hair was pulled back high on her head, and that seemed to be the extent of effort she had put into her appearance that morning.

Of course, she was still a fucking goddess.

Essays piled up one by one on the teacher's desk, and the professor smiled smugly at them all. Sandor dropped his on top without a care in the world. It had been ready for a week to hand in, with or without Sansa's critiques. The red ink dotted the pages sparsely—like he said, it was a fucking good essay—but her corrections were valid. Mostly, anyways. Some he took, some he didn't. At any rate, none of it mattered. It was just another grade in a meaningless slum of numbers.

He was sitting, unusual for him, behind the little bird's desk. He sniffed. Of course she smelt like perfume—why wouldn't she?

Clumsily, Sansa's hand reached for her coffee and sent her pen flying to the ground and—because his life was like this—rolling behind her _right to his fucking left foot. _

"Oh!" she squeaked (perhaps he should have called her little mouse), and tried twisting her torso to reach for it, strained and stretched. Her fingers danced for the pen.

"Here," he grunted, and picked it up for her. Wordless, she accepted it back and tucked it behind her ear. She _would _be one of those girls, the ones with the cup of coffee and a pen behind her ear and a few wisps of red curls falling loose from her bun. He thought those girls only existed in movies and shitty literature.

"Thanks," Sansa whispered, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. She whipped back around and faced the front, her shoulders stiff and unnaturally rigid.

During the course of the class, her shoulders took on that hunch he saw the first day of class—the one he'd caused after being such a fuckwit—and he hated himself a little more.

She didn't look behind her once.

But third time is a fucking charm, right, so when he went for lunch in the cafeteria on Friday a few weeks later, he risked going at the busiest time of day. Platter full of food, he milled about tables mindlessly, searching out an empty seat. From what he could tell, there was precisely one, and it was way the fuck in the back, a table for four, with only one lonely occupant tucked into the back corner, taking up as little of its space as possible.

It felt, to Sandor, like she was begging for company.

Or avidly trying to avoid it.

He bit down on his tongue, hard. Standing in the middle of tables and rowdy students, he'd start to look like an idiot if he didn't grab a seat soon. He swore under his breath and took a few steps towards her. Sansa. The girl who had tried to be nice to him and wound up getting shot down harder than she could possibly deserve.

Nope, he definitely wouldn't do it. Resolutely Sandor spun around and made to go back the way he came, food or no food, he could always eat outside. _Sigh. _He rubbed his free hand over his face tiredly, with resignation, and turned back around. _Way to look like a fucking idiot. _

Ignoring the students, Sandor restarted his walk to Sansa's lone table all the way in the back of the room, and stopped when he reached the seat diagonal to hers.

"You mind?"

Sansa's head snapped up to attention, eyes wide with surprise and then with nerves, and though she looked like she wanted to say yes, she attempted to smile and shake her head.

"Go ahead," she said very quietly.

Sandor sat. And Sandor ate.

With her nose buried in her book, Sansa resumed eating and reading, flipping pages with feigned casualness as she munched. Her face was too red for her to be relaxed, though, and there was a pursed tension to her mouth that told him very clearly that his presence, although tolerated, wasn't welcome in the least.

Yeah. Definitely shouldn't have sat down.

And this was how Sandor ended up sitting across from the prettiest girl he'd ever seen, cursing himself for trying, for failing, for bothering to make the attempt in the first place. Even if they were weak attempts… He sighed and stared miserably at his food. Way to fuck it up, Sandor. Way to be a complete moron to some poor kid who was trying to say hello. This super sexy girl who, even if she didn't want to _date _you, may have been nice company to have. You know, on occasion.

Wandering eyes led Sandor to try and read the title of her book, craning his head to get a better view. Her eyes peaked up over the top of the spine at his movement, and she watched him intently as he read. It was the next book on their reading list. Actually no, it was the one _after _the next one. Figures, she would be ahead of schedule.

"Is it any good?" Sandor asked suddenly. When she jumped—literally jumped—he wanted to dig a hole and die in it from humiliation. But he persisted, the little voice in his head encouraged him, and he tried again. "The book. _The Quiet American. _I haven't read it yet." It was one of the few on the list he had not, as a matter of fact. "Any good?"

Though she was obviously flustered, Sansa gave it a bit of thought. "The author's writing is…interesting. It has a good story, I think." She waved it a bit in the air, embarrassed and humble. "I'm not really far in it…"

And he saw she was telling the truth. No more than fifty or so pages in, he'd say.

"Oh," he grunted, and sat back a bit in his seat, feeling foolish for leaning in so close. Why the fuck would she want to look any closer at his ugly mug?

"Have you…"

It was Sandor's turn to be surprised. The little bird spoke up in peeping tones, quiet and shy but vocal, at least. Her question trailed off to the end, and he waited for her to finish.

"Have you…read any of the others?" Sansa's fingers tucked some hair behind her ear again in a familiar gesture. He followed the movement with his eyes and frowned in thought.

"I've read most of them, yeah. Not Quiet American. Or Wide Sargasso Sea."

"I've read that one!" Sansa beamed at him, and sat back a bit in sudden embarrassment for forgetting herself. For forgetting who she was talking to. "Wide Sargasso Sea, I mean… I've read it."

"Oh?" Sandor raised a brow. He tried angling his face so she couldn't see the scarred half so easily. But so far, she hadn't given much indication that it bothered her, really… He risked facing her head-on. "Any good?"

"Yes!" Sansa was enthused but still soft. She dared to tip her head at him a bit, smiling weakly but smiling all the same. "It's one of my favorites."

He even smiled back at her with a rare half-grin. "Any other favorites?"

"What—books?" Sansa smiled wider this time. "Yeah, sure…"

And that's how Sandor spent the next half hour, sitting at the tiny table surrounded by other students, completely focused on the words coming from Sansa's pretty little mouth.

She liked fantasy. That was no surprise, really. She had a love affair with Tolkien growing up—unsurprising—and apparently had a tattoo as testimony of it—_very surprising._ Sandor's mouth watered for a few seconds at the thought of getting to see it, let alone touch it, and he gave himself a firm shake to resume listening.

She hated Frankenstein. It was one of the only books for school she had never finished. But oh, she _loved _John Donne. She loved The Good Morrow, she loved his apt for poetry, loved his musicality.

And she loved George Orwell.

Sandor fucking _loved _Orwell.

"And his essays are just so…so…" Sansa broke off dreamily, her face flushed but this time with sheer pleasure. He wondered what it might be like to make her face flush from kissing her senseless—_down boy. _

"Yeah," Sandor agreed with a critical survey of her. Sincere enthusiasm had made her all the more lovely, and it was becoming harder and harder not to lash out at her for something beyond her control.

_You're too fucking charming, too sweet, too beautiful. Stop it, you're killing me._

Their conversation wandered into more modern literature, until Sandor found himself asking about guest lectures she wanted to attend.

"Oh, well there's one on Austen I really wanted to hear. He's a graduate from Dalhousie." Stretching his mind back as far as it would go, Sandor dimly recalled seeing some bloke's name listed alongside the date, _November the twenty seventh. _Two weeks from then.

"Yeah, I remember. Gonna go?"

Sansa giggled a bit. It was beginning to seem that she had quite forgotten his hideous words, as she had overlooked his hideous face much the same way. Pushing aside her lunch in favor of leaning closer, she had her breasts pressed against the tabletop, elbows propped up as she talked in eager tones to him on her passions and pleasures in literature. He'd like to say he was doing pretty fucking amazing at following the conversation, too, considering the view…

"Um, I don't know." She fiddled with her hands, toying with a gaudy ring on her pinky. "I won't know anyone."

Well, that was as much an invitation as he was going to get.

"I'd go with you," he offered without much of a thought. Had he thought it through, likely he'd just sit there with his mouth shut like a fucking idiot. "If you want."

Sansa reacted as though he'd offered to pay her way through university. Her jaw went slack, eyebrows lifted into her hairline, and something akin to skepticism lined her pretty features.

No, not _like _skepticism. _Skepticism, _period. She was weary of him and his offer.

And at once, he knew he hadn't shaken the memory of his cruel words to her just yet. Her shock vanished swiftly and was replaced with a dull echo of the hurt he'd seen in her eyes that day he told her to fuck off—something he regretted daily—and Sandor felt his back go up without planning it.

"What?" snapped Sandor. "That unappealing to you?" He folded his arms over his chest defensively.

To his surprise, Sansa met his griping with equal sourness. "No," she said with a petulant frown. "I'm just startled that you'd want to go _anywhere_ with me."

Well, he may not know much about women, but he knew when somebody was fishing for an apology.

"I offered, didn't I?"

Sansa dabbed at invisible leftover food on her bottom lip with a napkin, and sat upright. "Well, I would hate for you to feel _obligated _just because I made a comment—"

"Look, if you don't want me to come, then just say—"

"I never _said _that. I only said that you don't have to—"

"You didn't ask, I offered to go."

"And I'd like the company, only—"

"You don't have to be polite. Just say no—"

"I'm not telling you to come just because I'm scared of offending you."

"Then what's the big deal? You want to go to this stupid thing, don't you?"

"See? You're going to be hateful again. Even though I did _nothing—"_

"Oh for fuck's sake—_I'm sorry, _Sansa. Truly."

"I—what did you say?"

"I…" Sandor coughed and checked behind him to make sure no one had heard. The coast was clear; the hour was almost up and students were making their way to their next class, with a few students trickling in. The room was much quieter than it had been even as little as five minutes ago. "I said…I'm sorry. For earlier. For…that day. And, you know…everything after. I didn't mean it."

_Sorry for being an ass. Or myself._

The wariness only lingered in her blue eyes for a second after he stopped talking, and then it erased itself so smoothly, it was like it had never been there. Her lips were gently pressed shut, not in anger but in deep thought, and the pinched brow became considering instead of scornful.

And finally she spoke.

"I think," said Sansa, with a slow smile spreading, "we should start over." And like a character from those movies he hated where the mortal enemies rebuilt their relationship on love instead of hate, she outstretched her pale, bony hand and proffered it to him, radiant. "Hi. My name is Sansa Stark, and I like bike riding."

"Sandor Clegane," he said with a hand moving to cross the distance between them. He found hers and held it gently for a moment, pausing. And then grudgingly added, "And sometimes I say things I don't mean."

She burst out laughing and nodded in agreement, maybe even understanding. "Ok. Well, I've got to get to class, but I was looking for someone to go with me to the lecture on Austen in two weeks. Heard of it?" Her teasing grin made him feel like a five year old, but not in a stupid, demeaning way. No, now he felt his cheeks go ruddy, and his hands felt clammy. _Teasing him. _She was…flirting? Maybe? Certainly he was unfamiliar with the sensation, but not so clueless, he should hope, that he didn't recognize it altogether.

Sandor shook himself from his contemplations. "I've heard of it. Mind if I come along?"

And in her smile was all the light and sweetness and goodness he had never seen directed to him before. And though he still wanted her—definitely wanted her—the thought of being just her friend was becoming more and more appealing in those few seconds than anything else. Because if he could make her smile like that at him on a daily basis, as her friend, her acquaintance, her _lover, _then whatever piece of her she would share was worth everything.

Sansa smiled, her face lit up as she spoke. "I thought you'd never ask."


	2. Chapter 2

He folded his arms across his chest unhappily.

"No."

"Please?" She clasped her hands together, fingers laced tightly and eyes wide as the moon. "Pleeeease, Sandor?"

"_No, _I told you. I fucking hate Spenser."

"Just this once!" she whined, crawling into his lap and tugging at his folded arms until he conceded and let her snuggle down, her bottom wiggling in a way that nearly made him yelp.

"You know I do better with poetry if someone reads it aloud," she needled him, poking him with her manicured index finger a few times. In her free hand, the one not jabbing at him playfully, was the dreadful Norton Anthology, a text Sandor hated almost as much as he hated that Greek Literature course, full of Plato and Aristotle. Homer wasn't so bad—he actually enjoyed the Iliad—but _Symposium _was a fucking nightmare to try and study.

He sighed, scowling. But her face was too sweet and happy to be angry with for long. Besides, she was being honest, at least. She _did _do better on her essays when he read the texts out loud for her, claiming it had something to do with his cadence or shit like that.

And Sandor didn't really mind, if he were being honest. He knew all too well what the end result often was.

"Well, what is it this time? The fucking Faerie Queen?" _The Faerie Queen _was long, and tedious, and even though he loved Sansa he could think of a thousand and one other things he'd rather do than spend his time on that shit. After much encouragement, Sansa had succeeded in getting Sandor to read the Lord of the Rings, even after he watched all three movies (extended versions and all). He might make an irritated comment or two about the amount of detail Tolkien indulged in (seriously, the man could wax poetic about the same rock for ages), but despite himself he _enjoyed _the first book immensely, and the second was looking to be just as good, if not better.

It helped, he thought to himself, that he had inspiration to like the series thanks to Sansa's tattoo—Arwen's Evenstar pendant in white ink, tucked in between two high, full breasts and unseen to practically everyone but the tattoo artist and those who witnessed her playing in a bikini. And the white ink made it nearly impossible to see, anyways—unless you did as Sandor was often wont to do, and nuzzle very close to her breasts and study the swirling lines with deep fascination (and arousal) until she was flustered enough that she pushed him off her.

"Noooo," she chuckled, shaking her head. Her red curls bounced, and he dared to tangle his fingers in them. "Amoretti. His love sonnets. They're _very _romantic," she winked at him, and he was sold. Not so much because he was a sucker for romance (the opposite was true, in fact) but because _Sansa _was, and when Sandor got reading that British Romantic period shit, Sansa all but melted against him, cooing and kissing and, eventually, sliding her knees apart for him.

"Alright," Sandor grunted, and motioned for her to get off so he could stretch his legs on the bed. They were at his place for the afternoon, after Sansa claimed she'd go mad if she had to stay cooped up in her bedroom for one more hour.

"Which ones?"

"Here," Sansa gestured to the black circles marked with ink around the numbers of selected sonnets. Unlike himself, she had no qualms scribbling and besmirching the pages of a book, even one as exhausting as the Norton. "I circled them for you."

"How nice," he muttered sourly, a bit miffed that she had assumed he'd say yes—but then again, she wasn't wrong to do so. "Alright, ok. Sonnet one. From Edmund fucking Spenser's Amoretti."

"Sandor!"

"Shh, listen." And he began to read in his scots accent, lilting his words the way she liked, and growling at other cues. "Happy ye leaves when as those lily _hands_, which hold my life in their dead doing might, shall handle you and hold in loves soft _bands_, like captives trembling at the _victors'_ _sight_. And happy lines, on which with starry _light_, those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to _look_ _and_ _read_ the sorrows of my dying spright, written with tears in hearts close bleeding _book_…"

And as he read, she curled herself like a cat against his side, rolling her shoulders and closing her eyes, focused entirely on him and his words.

"Coming to kiss her lips (such _grace I found_), me seemed I smelt a garden of sweet _flowers_ that dainty odours from them _threw_ _around_, for damsels fit to deck their lovers _bowres_…"

Sansa gave a contented sigh, and threw an arm around his waist. It was innocent enough, but the suggestion was very much there. Her hand wandered down, down, down, and rested over the zipper of his charcoal grey jeans.

And squeezed once, in the merest flex of her palm.

"One day—_focus—_I wrote her name upon the _strand, _but came the waves and washed it away. Again I wrote it—Sansa, stop—with a second hand, but came the tide and made my pains his prey—for the love of god, Sansa!—_Vain man, _said she, _that does in vain assay—_for fuck's sake, woman!" Sandor rolled over atop her, and she gave a loud shriek of laughter and excitement and surprise, already flushed and panting, eagerly affixing her thighs to his hips, lurching up against him.

"Keep going," she whispered urgently, and leaned forward enough to suck at the pulse point on his neck.

"A mortal thing s-so to immortalize—fuck—for I myself shall like to this—_uhn, _Sansa—decay… And eek my name be wiped out likewise. Damn it!"

"Spenser curses a lot more than I remember him doing when I read it," she whispered, and he couldn't help the snort at her coy tongue. _Wicked little minx._

Sandor cast the book aside with a toss over his shoulder, careless and haphazard, and against his mouth he heard the little bird give a muffled scandalized whimper, offended to the extreme.

"That anthology costs eighty dollars!" Sansa shouted, lurching around him to try and get off the bed, but Sandor held her steady.

"No, no, little bird. You play with me, you get the Hound."

She made a face, even as she relaxed under his careful hold, looking up at him from beneath his long, broad body. "I hate that saying. It doesn't even make _sense_."

He grunted in his answer, bent his head and pulled her bra down until the taut little nipple was revealed. Sandor pressed his mouth to it, and bit down.

Sansa gave an emphatic cry of delight—he knew them well by now—and raked her nails down his spine. "Again, again!"

He obliged, this time with a rough flick of his tongue, softening the abuse done to the tight pink nub. Sansa almost loved this better than when he went down on her, and frankly he loved her tits more than enough to indulge her whenever she asked. (And yes, she was greedy enough to ask, to practically beg sometimes).

She rotated her hips, rocked them upwards against his stiffness, cradled between her legs. He had to bend and arch awkwardly, though, in order to keep mouthing at her breasts, so eventually he simply slid back up and kissed her mouth, warm and wet and open. Her tongue sliding freely into the deepest crevices of his mouth, even in the small hollow of his cheek where the skin was burnt away, Sansa reached down with both hands and grabbed hold of his rear, tight.

"Oh, that's lovely," she murmured, rocking with him, against him, for him. "Oh, that's…that's so lovely."

"I've never met a woman who likes having her tits pinched half so well as you do," rasped Sandor, and she paused long enough to raise an eyebrow at him.

"I'm literally ready for you to fuck me here and now, and you're comparing me to other women?" Her face was the perfect example of incredulity. "You're kidding me!"

Red in the face for other reasons than lust now, Sandor grinned a bit ruefully at her. "Aye, well… How's this. I've never met a woman half so lovely as you. Or with nicer tits."

Sansa huffed a laugh, sincere if not strong. "Better."

A groan of appreciation tore from his throat as she resumed her slow, hard thrusting, and even through her little shorts he could feel the warmth of her.

"Are you ready for me?" he asked, already fumbling with his zipper with one hand. _Damn_, it was difficult. "Ready for me to fuck you?"

_"God yes!" _Sansa wiggled out of her shorts from her reclined posture, and Sandor reached for his bedside table where a box of condoms was _oh-so-coincidentally _and _oh-so-conveniently _place just so, in arm's reach. He ripped the package and leaned back on his haunches long enough to pinch the tip of rubber and unroll it in a few quick pulls down his cock.

"Mmm, you are ready," Sandor crooked a finger between her legs thoughtfully, speculating. "Was it really the reading?"

Flushed from the cheeks of her face to the cheeks of her round bum, Sansa nodded with a shy smile. "Your voice is incredible."

_Beats the face, that's for sure. _But Sandor fights the bitterness away—he's already nearly lost her to his shitty attitude, and has no intentions of driving her away now if she really wants him.

He paused for only a moment, before giving an internal _fuck it. _On his forearms, he slowly lowered himself back down, taking cautions not to crush his little bird, his girlfriend, and he slid his cock along her folds, resisting the driving need to fuck her hard and fast. _Slow. You can do this—slow and steady. _Despite her sexual prowess, Sansa was still timid on occasion, and too much urgency tended to make her spine go stiff and cause her body to shut down.

"How about an extra push?" he asked, and didn't give Sansa any time to do more than blink and frown in confusion, even as her hands found his ass again and gripped it, guiding his movements against her, but not in her.

"All that is gold does not glitter. Not all those who wander are lost." Below him Sansa froze, but it wasn't with trepidation or nerves. Her breath came short and heavy, and she stared up at him with wide eyes of a doe. A pretty, blue-eyed doe. "The old that is strong does not wither. Deep roots are not reached by the frost." With considerable restraint, he pushed on her thighs until the fell to the sides, spread wide for him.

"Sandor…" she whispered, and touched his face. "Tolkien…?"

"From the ashes a fire shall be woken. A light from the shadows shall spring." She was breathing so loud, so hard, that he could barely hear himself. In perfect timing, he pushed back, positioned himself with a hand at her entrance. "Renewed shall be blade that was broken. The crownless…again…shall be _king."_

In one steady motion he was inside her, and then she was crying out in a soft moue of content and yearning for more.

He gave her more. Sandor gave her all, like he always had.

And when she was done, when he had reduced her to nothing but a trembling, tired mess of loose limbs and sweat-soaked skin, he took a moment to look at her—truly look at her—and smile, as breathless and boneless as she.

"You know," Sansa breathed, softly, hand curling into his, linking them as they laid side by side. "I never gave much thought to who I liked better. Spenser or Tolkien." Sandor said nothing, but turned his head so she could see him raise a curious brow at her as though to ask, _which is it?_

"I never thought I'd say it," she giggled, panting. "But…hearing you quote Tolkien…" she trailed off with bright smiles, and touched her fingers to his chest. "Well…how long before you think you can go again?"


End file.
